


The Grand Tourney of the Tub.

by Ownsariver



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2013-07-03
Packaged: 2017-12-17 12:26:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/867534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ownsariver/pseuds/Ownsariver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My contribution to VISUAL PROMPT MEME NO. 2 at sansa_sandor a good while back.<br/>http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/the_moonmoth/4080038/21261/original.png</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Grand Tourney of the Tub.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_moonmoth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_moonmoth/gifts).



> To Moony from Ownsariver: from Norway with love (and a massive hangover).

She had never intended to walk in on him. Really. She`d never even _considered_ the possibility of him being anything else than dressed and armed – large, fearsome and indestructible like her sworn shield always seemed to be. Impregnable… unfortunately… 

The armies were marching for the wall, marching to meet a foe no one had fought for thousands of years, marching to aid the Night’s Watch in a fight so desperate that the previous war seemed like petty bickering between siblings in comparison.

Commander Snow had thrown all ideas of loyalty to the seven kingdoms to the wind and reached the Dragon Queen first with his messengers when she`d arrived, giving her his warning of the last stand of the Night’s Watch, his dark promise of how all the seven frozen hells were sliding across the North to meet them. 

And she had listened.

Sansa represented a north she hadn`t seen in years, the Vale of Arryn simply as Harold Hardyng’s widow, and the riverlands her brother’s unwise decisions had ripped to pieces. But one steadfast, strong, _safe_ piece of her life had resurfaced through it all: Sandor Clegane. Who stood naked as his nameday before her. In his room in one of the few towers not in ruins at Moat Cailin. Beside a steaming copper tub.

“What in the seven hells has got you blowing through my door with your feathers on end?” he rasped as surprised as she felt… and obviously looked. Gods, _looked_. At him. _Naked._ Her cheeks turned crimson at the sight of his manhood, hanging heavy down against his thigh before he wrapped his towel low around his hips with practised movements. 

Desire surged in her no matter how indecent it was as the towel only highlighted the ridged muscles up from his groin, hair as black as what fell onto his shoulders growing in a stripe up his flat hard stomach, spreading over his equally muscular chest, only broken by old and new battle scars crossing his otherwise soft-looking skin. By the time her eyes travelled far enough up to meet his grey gaze, he was looking a quite striking combination of grumpy and amused.

“Want me to turn around as well?” he asked irritably in his hoarse voice, adding a belated ‘my lady’ that sounded like a curse.

“What? No! I`m... my pardons, Sandor, I`m… I need to speak with you, when… I mean, when you`re finished… washing.” _That magnificent body of yours. Gods!_

His mouth twitched into a half-grin, something in his gaze telling her he picked up quite a few things she would rather he did not, and the way he slid _his_ gaze studiously over _her_ body in return made her nipples tighten under her dress and lust tingle down her spine. He hadn`t done that since King’s Landing… and just now she found out how much she`d _really_ wanted him to.

She hadn`t been with a man since Harry died, and hadn`t missed the grunting and humping the least bit either, but then, she`d never really felt attracted to her handsome husband. Just… _obliged_ to do her duty. _This,_ on the other hand, made her remember long-suppressed dreams, and not so long-forgotten desires; soft sighs in the dark of her room at the Gates of the Moon when she found out that fantasy and reality could very well be combined with dreams – and the punch in her stomach when she`d seen his scarred face again years later.

Sandor had shown up in the riverlands with some Sparrows, shed his tabard instantly – and told his supposed brothers to go straight to all seven hells – the second she had announced that she needed him in her household. It had taken her less than a week to raise him to her sworn shield, but after that everything had come to a halt in the matter of closeness. 

Sansa had had absolutely no idea how to get his attention. He didn`t respond to any of the tricks Petyr had taught her with anything else than vicious mocking, and she hadn`t had the courage to even try Randa’s… less _discreet_ ways. Sandor did his duty flawlessly and that was that. And since she`d only seen him drunk off duty once in awhile, she couldn`t even take advantage of him stumbling into her repeatedly like he`d used to. As for the few times he`d been in his cups during the months they`d lived side by side, she doubted anyone else than she could have seen that he _was_ drunk. He usually kept to himself, walked straight enough and wrapped his tongue around his words with the practice of many years of hard drinking – and hadn`t given her so much as a leer, damn it. Well, until right now, but that was probably just to annoy her for staring at him.

So, as he`d never looked inappropriately at her or with anything like the gleam in his eyes he`d once had in King’s Landing, never mentioned their earlier acquaintance, never asked for a song or called her little bird… or stupid, for that matter… she`d ended up giving up on her childhood romance, swallowed the ridiculous pang of heartache and concentrated on more important matters. Sometimes she even wondered if she`d made up the whole thing. It had taken weeks around him before she suddenly realised she`d made up the kiss, but maybe she`d made up the rest as well? 

“Why do you never call me little bird anymore?” she blurted, feeling her already burning cheeks starting to glow like beacons. Gods, she was supposed to beg her pardons and _leave,_ not act like she`d never seen a naked man before.

Sandor’s eyes snapped up from her breasts – his gaze on her feeling nice no matter his reason for leering at her – looking taken aback for a heartbeat before his eyes turned into grey shields. “Hardly _my place_ now is it? Calling such a bloody grand lady as you`ve become by a nickname?”

“I… was it a nickname to you?” Sansa asked, surprised. Somehow that sounded nearly… affectionate… from _that_ great hulk of a man. She had thought he used it to mock her, until… until his last words before leaving her that desperate night. So… raw. _Little bird._

Irritation was obviously starting to simmer in him again, though, not affection. “Right, what the fuck was it you wanted to talk to me about? Birds and nicknames could not have been the reason for you to bloody well run down my door,” Sandor rasped, his anger surging until he more or less growled the last words.

“Vanguard!” Sansa more or less gasped, throwing herself in the direction of safe ground again. “The Queen wants us to take the vanguard as we near the Wall, to show a Stark leading the so-called rescue of the North under her banner. I just came from a meeting with her, we need to plan, those… wights are everywhere!”

He sighed, somehow making even _that_ sound annoyed, and before she could protest, he`d pulled off his towel and climbed into his tub with pure, stubborn defiance painted across his scarred face. “Get the hell on with it then, and no need to look so fucking shocked, _my lady_ – nothing you haven`t seen before and I`m not bloody wasting hot bathwater in this frozen hellhole of a kingdom.” 

Sansa stared at him, provoked no end by his insolence, _especially_ because she felt so drawn to him – and received a hard stare in return – before she picked up quill and parchment and dragged a chair over to the tub, pointedly seating herself next to it so she could see every delicious detail of his body just to show him that she wasn`t intimidated in any way. 

He sent her a dark glance, but picked up his bar of soap – looking so hard and obstinate that it nearly hurt to watch him. Sansa pretended everything was completely in order, though, actually finding her own footing again by knowing she`d managed to unnerve him for a moment. It reminded her that she _was_ a grand lady, a _leader,_ that a naked man was nothing new for a woman grown with a late husband, and that Sandor Clegane simply was a man like any other; possible to put in his place. Only trouble was that she had a sneaking wish for that place to be between her legs…

So in pure opposition to him insisting on a meeting while washing just to unnerve _her,_ Sansa tried her best to continue to unnerve _him_ instead. While noting down his thoughts on guards of honour and real guards, marching formations and archers with fire-arrows, she quite openly kept drinking in his body, his face, meeting those grey eyes, watching how she was starting to annoy him to pieces with a bland expression plastered on her face.

It couldn`t end prettily. She should have known that. Poke a dog too many times and it _will_ rise to the challenge. 

Sandor had washed long muscular legs and large feet, the hard planes of his stomach and chest, massive shoulders, strong arms, face, hair, neck – everything except his private parts. The water was hazy with soap, but still steamy, still possible to see through, and yet… his hand just clenched as if to stop himself from reaching down to his manhood – which he frustratingly enough had full control over –and ended up studiously resting his arms on the sides of the tub instead. 

But lack of swelling or not, Sansa Stark nonetheless felt she had beaten Sandor Clegane in the matter of lack of decency – a thunderous victory indeed.

She grinned widely at him right in the middle of writing down their plans for pyres and fire-rings at night. “Do you give up?” 

Sandor glared back at her. “Give up what? Lighting fucking pyres?”

Sansa widened her smile even more, showing him her teeth. “You`ve forgotten a part.”

The rueful twist to his mouth was enough to practically shout that he knew exactly what she was talking about, and the faint heat spreading over his good cheek despite the growing anger in his eyes made Sansa laugh despite her every intention. _Finally_ it was the other way around! “Ha! You`re _blushing,_ admit it! You`re embarrassed, my ill-mannered annoyingly impassive non-ser!” 

“Ah, fuck off! Bloody hell, it`s _hot_ in here! And where in the name of the Stranger did that cold, impeccable little northern lady go, anyway? Bugger you for looking at a man like that!” Sandor broke down hoarsely, looking a mixture of furious and mirthful. 

Sansa thought her face would split. “You asked for it. Really, do you still think me an innocent little girl who can`t handle the sight of an undressed man? Doesn`t matter, I won!”

“You… fuck! I wasn`t aware we were competing,” he rasped, annoyed. “In what?”

“In lack of decency! You got embarrassed first, so I won,” Sansa replied cheekily, feeling lightheaded at suddenly being able to joke and laugh with him like this.

“No way in the seven hells I`ll let a woman beat me in that,” Sandor replied, irritation abating enough for Sansa to laugh fully at him for about a second before strong arms suddenly grabbed her around the waist and dragged her straight into the tub with a mighty splash.

“You… the _papers!_ Gods!” she spluttered as he laughed hoarsely, her soaked dress all that was between herself and Sandor’s naked skin. Which both of them discovered at the same time, meeting each other’s eyes. 

“ _Now_ we`re competing!” he rasped, nearly menacing, his large body making her feel so small, making lust prickle through her as he laid back in the tub, looking _comfortable_ of all things and grinning viciously at her. Frustratingly impassive all over again. Drat the man. Raising herself, she felt all too aware of his muscular thighs and alluring groin underneath the wet fabric, not knowing if he was responding or not to her legs tangling in his, her hands on his chest. 

Sansa scowled at him, dripping wet and wondering how in the Maiden’s name she would manage to sneak back to her own room like this. So, as there was nothing more to lose, she simply forced herself to relax as she arranged her legs together and sat down on his hard thighs as daintily as she could, facing him as she grabbed his bar of soap and reaching down pull her skirts out of the way.

“You could have asked nicely if you needed help washing, you know,” she said matter of factly, ignoring her fiery cheeks as she pretended to reach down for him. That did the trick. Sandor jerked backwards so a new wave of bathwater splashed over the sides, his grin wiped off his face immediately.

“You wouldn`t fucking dare,” he growled, making Sansa feel arousal start to simmer hotly in her belly. She hadn`t really though to… but if he _dared_ her… 

She met his threatening gaze with a stubborn one of her own, one eyebrow cocked, and let her hands descend through the water, touching his stomach, letting the bar of soap slide down his skin under her hand as she watched Sandor’s scarred lips part in a sharp inhale of breath, shifting to grip her hard around her upper arms, but not quite holding her back either.

“Fuck,” he gasped as she reached his manhood, her own arousal flaring at finding him hardening under her fingers, all her highborn lady’s thoughts screaming for her to stop touching a scarred warrior, a _retainer_ like this, all her wolfish instincts howling for her to finally go for the prey, nearly _hearing_ Randa cheering her on. 

The wolf won. She let out a soft moan as her hand folded around the broad silken stem of him, the other soaping him under Sandor’s agonized and incredulous stare, a deep groan finding its way out between his gritted teeth as she stroked back the fold of skin around the head of him, washing him gently.

His hands released the iron grip around her upper arms, tentatively cupping her breasts through the wet bodice of her dress, moving, squeezing her, making a storm of want wash through her. She tightened her grip around his manhood and started stroking him slowly as her eyes closed in pleasure at what his hands were doing. Overwhelmed by suddenly being thrown straight into a fantasy.

“Look at me,” Sandor rasped, something so vulnerable in his voice that Sansa found herself open her eyes instantly and study him intently. “Don`t do this… don`t… if it`s only a fucking game.”

Sansa met his eyes and saw such a chaos in them that it took her a second to respond. Too much time, apparently, as Sandor pushed her away roughly, sitting up, splashing the water over the sides of the tub on his way out of it. And suddenly it all clicked into place in Sansa’s mind.

“No, don`t go,” she said, flinging her arms around him, feeling how he went utterly still in her embrace when she hugged him to her, her cheek against his scarred one. “Stay. Please. I… I… want to… want you…”

He sunk down again. Slowly. Letting her hold him, but didn`t hold her in return, just breathed rapidly and felt tense as a bowstring underneath her, his manhood still hard against her legs. Sansa kissed the twisted scar tissue of his cheek and lifted her upper body, looking into those grey storms as she unlaced her bodice. 

“Help me,” she whispered, when she was assured he wouldn`t do anything rash.

He did. Hesitantly at first, grabbing hold of her wet sleeves and letting her pull her arms out, unlacing her smallclothes oddly gently, but ending up roughly pushing it all down over her hips hurriedly as she laid down on top of him again, naked together in the warm water. Inhaling the clean smell of him, she pressed her face into his neck before kissing him up to his remaining ear, making Sandor sigh in pleasure and stir underneath her. 

Mother have mercy, it felt _so good_ when his arms finally went around her, making her arousal roar as he stroked down her back and grabbed hold of her bottom, his hips starting to move in need. Relaxing, giving in, wanting her in return. Their hands started exploring each other’s bodies, Sansa stroking over massive muscle and soft skin covered with thrilling scars, up his neck, her fingers twining into his hair as he held her gaze, touching her, caressing her with calloused fingers, until they both breathed raggedly in hurried need.

She spread her legs and he groaned deeply, his hard manhood brushing against her opening, her moisture feeling slick even under water, making both of them moan. Sandor grabbed her bottom with one hand and steadied his manhood for her with the other, letting her push him slightly into her, before he thrust deeply in what felt like a pure reflex. His helpless groan ignited her into an even hotter blaze, making her whimpers of pleasure turn to a throaty moan against his neck. Gods, he was _much_ larger than Harry`d been, filling her up, sending her high as the heavens. 

She raised her face to look at him, gasping as he thrust into her anew and moving her hips to meet him, soaring on the intense sensation he created in her and the way his face contorted in pleasure. 

“Touch me,” she whispered, arching when one large hand caressed her breast above the water, thumbing her nipple as they moved in pace, bathwater splashing and neither of them caring one whit. 

“Kiss me,” he demanded hoarsely in turn, glancing at her mouth with intoxicating longing. She smiled and closed in on him, kissing his scarred lips softly, and unleashing something deep within the man she was riding. He made a strangled sound and rose up towards her, his arms folding hard around her, pressing her flush towards him, something changing in the way he thrust into her, making it into such a new, slowly sliding, utterly pleasurable rhythmic motion. _He`s… he`s making love to me!_

She`d never felt anything of the kind, never felt so precious, so loved, so utterly in heaven as in the arms of the infamous man who held her so tight, his large, hard manhood moving in and out of her with such intense _need,_ kissing her sweet and deep, following her lead and letting his tongue slide against hers between deep groans and gentle sighs. Her own moans started to sound loud in her ears as her body responded harder, higher, building towards what she`d only ever managed to reach on her own before.

They held each other desperately, grinding their hips against each other faster, panting heavier into their kisses as all reserve left them and the gates of all seven heavens started to glow with Sansa’s intense need for release. She wanted more of him, all of him, loving the way he thrust into her harder, how he seemed just as needy as she was, pleasure and the strange feeling of finally allowing herself to be head over heels in love with him blending together.

“Use your hand… on me,” she gasped against his lips, too aroused to care, making him groan raggedly as he shifted, edging his hand between them while still holding her hard with his free arm. She let go of his neck long enough to adjust his fingers until he found just the right spot. And then they started moving again.

Sansa quite simply didn`t know what to do with herself, couldn`t control the noises coming out of her mouth, her whole body tensing as he fucked into her anew. The way he was moving his fingers over her nub as her hips moved hard and fast against him working like nothing ever had with Harry – until Sandor’s deep thrusts took away her last shred of control, her body stiffening as he pushed her straight over the edge. Her release crashed through her, slammed her against this massive man who was moaning shakily against her lips as he too peaked, his pulsing manhood sending her up and up, unleashing wave after wave of burning, prickling too-intense pleasure as still-hot bathwater splashed around them, caressing their bodies, resonating the warmth she felt within.

They stilled, arms still hard around each other, lips still against the other’s mouth. Sandor apparently as shocked as she was at what they`d just done. He moved first, though, pressing a kiss hesitantly to her lips, watching her almost warily as she stared at him through the sated pleasure of the aftermath. She smiled hesitantly at him and kissed him back, her chest filled with all the tumbling emotions she`d suppressed for so long.

Sandor raised them both up to a sitting position and Sansa felt his softened manhood slide out of her as she folded her legs around him and rested her head in the crook of his neck, comforted by his arms holding her like he would never let her go instead of pushing her away. 

“Bugger me, that struck me blind,” Sandor muttered down into her hair. “You`re too bloody delicious… and _seven hells_ you can fuck.”

“You made me peak,” Sansa murmured dazedly against his skin.

“I know,” he answered, something definitely smug in his rasping voice. “Hadn`t a chance in hell to hold back with _that_ feeling around my cock.” 

“Thank you,” she answered softly, feeling his arms tighten even more around her as he got up, water raining down in the tub as he carried her out of it and wrapped his towel around her before walking over and laying her down on his bed. 

He laid down beside her after drying himself off as well, still looking slightly apprehensive until she reached out for him and stroked down his neck and over his heavy shoulder. “So… have you competed much like this, my lady?” he asked wryly enough, but with an edge to his voice that spoke volumes.

“No, but I`m sure you have had your fair share of wins in games of this sort,” she answered, knowing he`d not exactly been acting the pious brother in King’s Landing at least, suddenly feeling her own jealousy flare no matter how idiotic it felt.

He grinned ruefully at her. “Yes and no,” he started in his hoarse voice. “Never with someone I bloody well _wanted_ to win, at least.”

“So you`re saying you won me?” Sansa replied in mock outrage. “I`ve told off enough suitors for you to know how much I appreciate being a prize,” she continued. “No, since _I_ won the competition, I believe I won you.”

The burnt side of his mouth twitched, but in amusement and not anger, for once. “How did _you_ win? I managed to make Lady Stark fuck me senseless in my bathtub!”

Sansa grinned at him, competitiveness coming back to the fore. “Yes, but when speaking about lack of decency, I still won,” she started mirthfully enough. “No one would be surprised that _you_ went along with fucking a woman in your bathtub, but imagine the reaction to me, the Lady of Winterfell, descended from the old Kings in the North… that I… _made love_ to Sandor Clegane, former Lannister dog, in… his bathtub,” she ended up murmuring, feeling utterly exposed as she caressed his stomach and waited for the mocking reply that was bound to come. But he just stared at her. “Would… would you agree there`s a… a difference?” she finished in a small voice. 

“First bloody time in my life I`ve been a prize,” he muttered and simply dragged her towards him, kissing her hard, making Sansa feel a breathless surge of pure joy filling her whole body.

She kissed him back, feeling how his manhood hardened all over again at the sudden strange closeness and anticipation between them. He turned them both to get on top of her and exhaled raggedly as her legs wrapped around him.

“I think we have both won, though, in the matter of love,” she whispered into his mouth as Sandor steered his manhood against her entrance with a new confidence born of _knowing_ she wanted him, obviously having wanted her as well for quite some time.

He groaned as he thrust into her anew, but later, when he released helplessly deep inside her, he moaned his old nickname for her as their bodies convulsed in pleasure against each other, his harsh voice turning almost pleading as he called her his little bird.


End file.
